


Whatever Ghostly Life

by Potterology



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potterology/pseuds/Potterology
Summary: “I cannot say you ever struck me as a man with a penchant for contemporary music tastes,” she murmurs under the music, forcing herself to relax in his arms and bringing a hand up to rest at the nape of his neck. Hannibal must feel her acquiescence; presses a delicate kiss to her cheek.





	Whatever Ghostly Life

**Author's Note:**

> Something which has been brewing with me for a while. Hope you enjoy!

No vinyl _battaglia_ to set the scene, nothing opulent or some grand aria to fill the room with the very image of mahogany and rich sauce, red wine and an ever present hot smell of blood. Something which always struck her as disorientating: for all his evil, all his menace simmering away under the surface as it broiled his bones, he never reeked of death, quite the opposite in fact. Hannibal Lecter was sophistication to the tee; forever an expensive (but subtle) cologne, a well pressed shirt, pristine collar and cuffs, shined shoes and combed hair. He was groomed. Attractive. Nothing to belie the beast within.

Instead, there is a radio in the corner of the kitchen and some eighties tune a decibel or two away from blaring plays, the sickly sweet smell of syrup apricots and something sinister underneath permeating the space. _Bring It On Home to Me_. Sam Cooke. It’s a personal – _private_ – favourite. Had he read something in her home?

She kept journals as a young woman, well into her thirties and forties, but abruptly halted such a habit once it became apparent just how complicated her life would become when Hannibal entered it. He smiles, sincere in his thrill upon seeing her, and abandons the utensils at the pan (the apricots start to burn almost immediately, as if sensing his sudden indifference to them) and grabs at her hand, turning her slowly on the spot in time to the verse. _If you ever change your mind…_ She is brought into the circle of his arms in a steady, romantic waltz, a gesture almost sweet and happy beyond measure, the sort of thing which sits aching in her chest and threatens to burst and crush and humiliate.

Perhaps this is his intention. 

He hums under his breath and turns her again, bringing her back to his chest this time so his arms sit across her waist; to an outsider, it must be the most beautiful sight in the world. A husband so devilishly in love with his darling wife he is unable to resist pulling her into a dance, right there in the kitchen. So happy to know the fresh news (the latest in flesh wounds, some new indignity which she must suffer through). _A baby girl_. It makes her sick. Nauseas in a violating way.

A deep pull from her insides reminds her of the exact cause of such nausea, it’s repercussions and, of course, the reason for his overwhelming affection.

“I cannot say you ever struck me as a man with a penchant for contemporary music tastes,” she murmurs under the music, forcing herself to relax in his arms and bringing a hand up to rest at the nape of his neck. Hannibal must feel her acquiescence; presses a delicate kiss to her cheek.

“Vivaldi did not complement my mood. I needed something to remind me of you,” he kisses her shoulder this time and finally releases her, three strides back to the various pans. Apricots now fully wilted, they land with a hot thud amongst the waste. The song fades. Changes to something older. _Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man_.

“And you settled on the eighties greatest?” she asks, accepting an offered glass of elderflower and sparkling water. Six months ago, it would have been wine or vodka on ice, God willing. His look asks _would you prefer something else_ and it makes her sick, too. As if he cares. As if her wellbeing has always been his first and foremost concern. Bedelia rearranges a curl. “I suppose I always have had a soft spot for Cat Stevens.”

Her smile is a compromise _. Not tonight. Not yet_.

“Yusuf Islam.” His comment earns a rare smile, a conceding nod. _Yes, that’s correct._ Hannibal uses a clean pan for fresh apricots, disappointed in his first effort. Small sacrifices.

 

-

 

Du Maurier, not Lecter. Such a brusque surname, one which would – inevitably – haunt an innocent child until they went insane from the wondering; so Bedelia makes the decision and allows for no argument from her _husband_. As if it would have mattered. The FBI arrive within days of the birth; a nurse gave them away perhaps or some chance encounter with an American tourist, even simply a vigilant _guardia di sicurezza._ Francesca du Maurier knows nothing of the world outside her mother’s arms and even Will Graham will not break the delicate bond – even he, as twisted as Hannibal has made him – hesitates to rebuke her tear-filled story of drug-induced coercion (lie), threatening manipulation (lie) and sexual infringement (bigger lie). A newborn is terribly hard to argue with; a surprising revelation, creating an impregnable barrier between herself and the prosecution lawyers. They are unwilling to make a victim of the daughter despite their assuredness of her mother’s guilt.

How unexpected.

“She looks just like you,” Will Graham half-whispers to a small, still bundle settled in the crook of his arms; Bedelia wakes to the sound and his gentle shuffle, midway between alarmed and aloof. A child would never come to harm from the pathetic creature Hannibal has created – and yet, she flinches with every too-quick movement.

“Small mercies,” she replies, contemptuous but hiding it well. Will scoffs. 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” his voice drops a tone lower, so steady, a dripping tap meant for Chinese water torture as their eyes meet. “I can’t help but wonder if she won’t inherit your looks and his… _proclivities_.” Will’s eyes grow cold. Unforgiving. _I see you_. “What d’you think?”

Out of spite, on her last day in the hospital and the last time she ever intends to see Will Graham, she hands him a signed certificate naming him Francesca’s godfather and a letter.

_Perhaps the best resource is to meet everything passively, to make yourself an inert mass, and, if you feel that you are being carried away, not to let yourself be lured into taking a single unnecessary step, to stare at others with the eyes of an animal, to feel no compunction, in short, with your own hand to throttle down whatever ghostly life remains in you, that is, to enlarge the final peace of the graveyard and let nothing survive save that. Franz Kafka. Yours, always. Bedelia._

 

-

 

Hannibal Lecter dies on a warm Saturday in August. In the gallery, Bedelia remains impassive and shows remarkable restraint in managing not to even so much as brush her _fingertips_ over her wedding ring. Francesca fidgets with six-year-old awkwardness; it seems unduly pitiless to subject a child to something so brutal as being witness to a state execution, but it seemed even moreso to deny a dead man a last glimpse of his daughter. Such a beautiful child. Perfect blonde soft curls, a thin but sweet face, ice blue eyes and the mind of someone decades older.

( _Bedelia pictures a future of Harvard at twelve, a doctorate at seventeen, a phenomenal and promising career in anything her daughter should set her fancy upon. No boundaries to such intelligence and talent._ )

Margot Verger and her insipid wife settle in the corner and throw odd, judging glances in her direction; Jack Crawford with all his smug self-righteousness has the gall to nod in deference; the Bureau goons follow, the same satisfied thrill of watching their prize chicken being plucked for dinner; Chilton settles in the chair beside her and says nothing at all. But they all turn to ghosts when she sees Will Graham; a stoic statue with his back pressed against the far wall, looking as bereaved as she should.

Hannibal spares a glance for her, an almost sorrowful pained stare for Francesca and when the light leaves his eyes, they are fixed entirely on Will Graham. Sam Cooke rings in her ears.

 

-

 

Francesca goes by _Frankie_ , college friends butchering pristine Italian into some awful American perversion; Georgetown instead of Harvard, fine arts instead of science, a death trap Impala instead of a collectors Jaguar, guitar instead of piano, Vivaldi and Bach forsaken for Hall and Oates. She grows taller and holds the slimness of her father, without his predatory look. Cheekbones are prominent but less defined. A truly unmatched beauty in her smile, the kind Bedelia has never possessed.

One day, the inevitable happens. The internet is such a harsh mistress. “That’s you, right?” Francesca asks, sliding an almost twenty-year-old website printout across the kitchen island; the morning turns stale. It must have been dragged from some sort of online archive, the familiar **_TATTLECRIME_** logo overhead and a picture of her own face next to Hannibal Lecter himself. “Is it true?”

 _I know_ , say her daughter’s eyes, settled in a steady and unmoving face. Looking for the lie. Waiting for the bait to be batted away. Bedelia doesn’t blink.

“Yes.” What would be the point in lying? To her credit, Francesca does not flinch. “We went to Paris first, for the sake of finding more sustainable identities, then settled in Florence. You were born there, as you know.” Bedelia forgoes orange juice and the simple, now cold omelette; pivoting on a high heel, she pours a glass of wine and sips deeply. _Something pink_. Francesca seems almost amused by the action.

“Did you help him?” Francesca swallows before she speaks, but it doesn’t take any edge off the bitterness in her voice.

Bedelia fades into the background for a moment, lost in a swimming memory as she stares into a pair of eyes almost identical to her own. Voice suddenly shaky, she murmurs, “Observing or participating.” A blink. Back to reality. “No, I didn’t help him. I was his hostage, not his accomplice. In fact, I think he intended to make me a final meal, should he find himself at an impassable crossroads.”

Francesca looks suddenly as though she very much wants to vomit. “Is Hannibal Lecter my father?” she asks, a deep quake in her throat incapable of hiding the truth of her disgust. Bedelia only nods. Pours a second glass and slides it over, gulped in three swallows by her grateful daughter who then huffs out a wet breath. “Heavy.”

“I chose not to tell you before you were even born.” Gently, with all the motherly grace she can muster from the very depths of her soul, Bedelia rounds the corner and carefully tucks Francesca’s hair behind both ears, cupping her beautiful young face. “Hannibal has defined so much of my life, tainted a great deal of what I once held sacred. I refused to let him have you as well. To taint your life.”

 Francesca hugs her mother so tightly, neither one can quite manage a full breath.

 

-

 

A man named Will comes to her mother’s funeral, salt-and-pepper haired, and tells Frankie he is terribly sorry for her loss. It is a lie, but since Will is the only other person in attendance, she allows the indiscretion.

She only notices the bouquet after the service has finished; belladonna, white oleander, ragwort.  There is a short note accompanying: _I imagined it differently._

 


End file.
